


Once Upon a December

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anastasia AU, F/M, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Burn, Victorian, Young Molly, Young Sherlock, molly is a strong independent woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 01:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15719208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: Few people remember the small, one-time nation of Bourdemere, now part of France. Those that do remember might wonder what became of the youngest princess, whose body was never found. Meanwhile, in Queen Victoria's England, Molly Hooper strives to unravel the mystery of her past... Anastasia AU, slow-burn Sherlolly, with a healthy serving of Warstan on the side.





	Once Upon a December

_24 December, 1829_

Marguerite Adeline du Pont expelled a happy sigh into the wintry night, delighting in the smoke-like puffs that appeared at her exhale. Just beyond her open window, a gentle snow fluttered down from purplish-grey clouds, back-lit by the fading rays of sunlight. Sadly, the snow melted as soon as it touched ground, but even so, she loved to watch it dance through the air, dusting the night in just the right hint of magic.

Down below, a line of carriages steadily approached the palace – her home. Her father, Nicolas Aldéric du Pont, King of Bourdemére, would surely be just outside the entrance, greeting his guests, along with her mother. Queen Alexandria du Pont, the loveliest woman in Europe, was as kind and gentle as she was beautiful. Her long blonde hair and blue eyes enchanted their small country, and King Nicolas. Some said she softened the gruff, sometimes temperamental monarch, though Marguerite didn’t know quite what that meant.

At eight years old, Marguerite was the youngest of three princesses. Her older sisters, Eveline and Jeannette, were age nineteen and fifteen, respectively, and fancied themselves so much more knowledgeable than “little Marguerite.” As such, she often chose to spend her leisure time with her face pressed into a book. She would prove to her older sisters that she knew just as much as they did.

Tonight, however, she had no patience for books. Tonight was Christmas Eve, and there was a party to be had.

Behind her, the door to the nursery swung open, revealing her governess, Colette. “Mademoiselle!” she scolded. “Get away from that window, you’ll catch cold!”

Marguerite giggled, but complied, twirling her way across the room. “I’m so excited for the party, Colette! It’s going to be just _magical!_ ”

“Yes,” the woman chuckled softly, while attempting to catch the spinning child. At last, she caught hold of one arm, and guided her to the wardrobe. “I’m sure it will.”

“Won’t you be there?” Marguerite asked as Colette helped her out of her day dress.

Something almost sad flickered across Colette’s face, but she quickly smothered it with a placating smile. “Now, mademoiselle, you know the servants do not attend grand royal parties. ‘Tis not our place.”

Marguerite frowned up at her. “But… why?”

“’Tis the way things are, pet,” she shrugged, letting slip her private nickname for the young princess. “But never you mind. We must get you ready for the party!”

Her trick proved effective; at the mention of the night’s events, Marguerite bounced in excitement and let her beloved governess carry on her work. Soon, she was dressed in a glittering, golden gown, paired with a tiara of the same shade, her hair plaited and pinned to perfection. Marguerite _hated_ it, but she was too ecstatic to care tonight. For the first time in her life, she would be allowed to stay at the party after dinner, and that was worth a few small discomforts.

 

At the other end of the spectrum, a young man sat languidly in a wooden chair, waiting as his grandmother, the palace cook, pulled out two more loaves of bread from the oven. All around him, the other servants bustled about, prattling away in rapid French as they carried out their chores. He couldn’t understand everything they said, but he caught enough to know the guests had arrived. _More rich people_ , he grumbled silently.

“William,” his grandmother called, “come and help me, please.”

He kept his sigh of dismay to himself, and did as his grandmother asked. The two of them set about arranging and perfecting the many courses of the feast – _none_ of which would be eaten by the servants, or himself – and preparing them for the guests. The rich, titled guests. William hated the lot of them.

A sharp blow to the back of his head made him realize he’d said that last bit aloud. “You mind yourself, William Holmes,” his grandmother scolded. “Talk like that will get you thrown out into the snow.”

“ _What_ snow?” he muttered, rubbing his head gingerly. “It’s barely more than rain here.”

She sighed and shook her head, but with a smile that betrayed her fondness for her young grandson. At thirteen, he was already becoming a handsome young man, looking more like his father every day.

Her son, Siger, God rest his soul, had passed over a year ago, leaving his wife and two children nearly penniless. The cost of Mycroft’s education at Cambridge had been paid in full, but the remaining funds were not enough for a mother and two sons to live on. Thus, young William was sent to live with her in Bourdemére, only until his thirteenth birthday – in two weeks.

Heavens above, she would miss him. Though he tended towards surly indifference much of the time, her grandson had a keen intellect, an obvious thirst for knowledge, and an eye for details. What he lacked was the tact to keep _certain_ details to himself. That, she remained optimistic, would be learned in time. And with his intelligence, he also bore a ceaseless energy, which she envied greatly. Somehow, though, he managed to share it. The very air around him seemed to hum and vibrate, almost as if he couldn’t contain the millions of thoughts racing around his brain. He would be quite the heart-breaker, she was sure, when he became a man. Oh, how she hoped she would be around to see it.

Meanwhile, William was counting down the days until he could return to England. He missed his home fiercely, London in particular. The noise, the stench… he loved every bit of it. _Two weeks_ , he reminded himself. _Two weeks until the journey home_.

 

Marguerite squealed in delight as her father swept her up and above his head, before setting her back on her feet. She couldn’t remember a better night! A delicious feast, and hours and hours of music and dancing! The night was nearing its end, though, and she would soon have to return to the nursery. She tried very hard not to think of that.

A sudden movement caught her eye, and she turned to look up at the thrones. Another giddy squeal escaped her, and she sprinted up the few steps to greet her favorite person in the entire world.

“ _Grandmère!_ ” she cried, throwing her arms around her.

The Dowager Queen, Adèle Vivienne du Pont, sat regal and resplendent in a gown of aubergine. She gathered her favorite grandchild into her arms and embraced her.

“Oh, _mon abeille_ ,” she cooed affectionately. “How I’ve missed you!”

“I’ve missed you more,” the little girl protested.

Adèle laughed. “Well, we shall save that argument for another time! But now, there is something much more important at hand.”

Marguerite lifted her head, showing her grandmother a pair of wide, hopeful brown eyes. “Is it something special?”

“Something _very_ special,” Adèle nodded, “and something just for you.”

With a slight flourish, she produced a strange, egg-shaped item, decorated in glistening gold and glittering jewels. In her other hand, she revealed what looked to be a necklace. Before Marguerite could get a good look, Adèle had tucked the star-shaped pendant into a slot on one side of the egg-like object, and began twisting it…

A soft, sweet, almost sad melody began playing, and a lid opened to reveal a beautiful dancing couple, spinning in endless circles. “A music box!” Marguerite breathed in wonder. “Oh, Grandmère, it’s beautiful!”

“I’m glad you like it,” she beamed at her granddaughter.

As the melody ended, and the lid closed, Adèle removed the necklace to show her the pendant. Marguerite caught it and squinted her eyes to read the inscription. “ _Mon abeille,”_ she read, then grinned. “That’s what _you_ call me!”

With another laugh, Adèle pulled her in for another hug. “ _Oui, mon abeille_. I hope you treasure it, as I treasure you.”

Marguerite eagerly returned her grandmother’s embrace, certain that nothing could ever ruin such a lovely, perfect night.

She was wrong.

The next moment, a loud crash sounded from across the ballroom, and a bitterly cold wind gusted over the crowd, dousing many of the flickering candles above them. Adèle tightened her hold on Marguerite as a hooded figure appeared in the open doorway.

Her father stood from his nearby seat, and the crowd hushed. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

The figure lowered its hood, revealing an old, angry-looking woman. Her silver hair poked out at odd angles from beneath the tatty handkerchief she’d tied around her head, giving her an almost wild appearance. She fixed King Nicolas with a piercing stare as she approached.

“I have seen the future,” she rasped. “ _Your_ future, Majesty.”

Nicolas scoffed. “Have you, indeed?”

She nodded once with a sneer. “I see fire and smoke. Rage and rebellion. Your family torn apart.” With every revelation, sounds of dismay erupted from the crowd, louder each time. She seemed to draw strength from their reaction, her sneer widening into a malicious grin. “I see the death of _you_ , Your Majesty, and everyone you love!”

“How dare you!” Nicolas shouted. “How dare you enter my home and spread such lies!”

“These are not lies, Majesty,” she almost purred. “This is your future. You cannot escape it. You and your family will die in the coming year.”

The King growled, his hands balling into fists. “I’ve had enough of this! Seize this blasphemous hag!”

The old woman was dragged from the ballroom, cackling madly and babbling about the death of the monarchy. Marguerite shook in her grandmother’s arms, and when Colette came to take her to bed, Adèle waved her off, and took her to the nursery herself.

“Grandmère, is it true?” she asked fearfully as Adèle draped the warm, heavy blankets over her. “What that woman said?”

“Hush, now,” she whispered, smoothing back an errant strand of chestnut hair. “You needn’t worry, _mon abeille_.”

Appeased by the soothing words, Marguerite said nothing more. Adèle wound the music box, letting it play softly from the bedside table. She hummed along with the melody, her voice lulling the young girl into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

_27 July, 1830_

William Holmes sat atop the highest turret, unbeknownst to anyone else residing within the palace, aimlessly tossing small pebbles into the air. He’d had mixed feelings about returning to Bourdemére, but his mother had been unable to keep the truth of their finances from him. She still couldn’t afford to keep him. It rather looked as if he would remain here in this blasted palace until Mycroft finished at Cambridge. That would be another two years, at least.

Sighing to himself, he tried to see the good in his situation. He enjoyed being with his grandmother, especially when it involved tending the garden; plants were fascinating, and he loved to memorize their names and functions. Cooking, though less stimulating, also held some merit. If none of his dreams came to fruition, he believed he could make a passable cook. But that was an absolute _last_ resort. For all the small pleasures to be found here, life in Bourdemére was unforgivably dull. William longed for adventure, action, even a bit of danger. The most dangerous thing around this palace was the hornets’ nest tucked under a nearby eave.

_Wait… what’s that?_

William shot to his feet, his eyes fixed on the horizon. A large cloud of dust rose from the ground to the distant west, signaling the impending arrival of a sizeable group of people. _That’s odd_ , he thought. He couldn’t recall hearing of any more royal parties. One of the princess’s birthdays was sometime in August, he believed, but even didn’t justify the approaching horde. He squinted against the setting sun, lifting a hand to further shield his eyes, then his stomach plummeted.

Torches. They were carrying torches. And pistols.

He swallowed hard, carefully lowering himself into the nearby window, then made a mad dash for the kitchens. He bumped into a few of the servants on his way, earning what he believed were some very choice French words, but he paid no mind. He had one destination in mind, and one alone.

The royal family was stunned into silence as the strange boy burst into their dining room. He panted a few breaths, before pointing toward the windows. “Mob,” he managed hoarsely. “Guns. Coming… this way.”

King Nicolas stood quickly and headed to the window. His posture stiffened as he observed the unmistakable truth. When he turned to his family, his jaw was set in determination. “Alexandria, take Eveline and Jeannette to my chambers. Mother,” he addressed Adèle, “you and Marguerite go to the nursery. Barricade the doors. I will join you as soon as I can.”

Chaos erupted as royals and servants alike scrambled to find safety. Many of the servants, loyal to the family and the crown, remained inside, locked in the kitchens.

“William,” his grandmother murmured to him, “you know the secret pathways of this place better than the king himself. See if you can find anyone, bring them back here.”

He nodded swiftly, then hurried off to do as she asked.

Adèle and Marguerite sprinted up to the nursery, just as the mob descended on the palace. With a chair propped against the door, they stepped as far from it as they dared, while avoiding the windows on the other side of the room. Outside, the mob pounded on doors and crashed through windows. Then came several loud _bangs_ , and Marguerite heard someone screaming… it sounded dreadfully like Eveline…

Loud footfalls echoed outside the door, and Adèle’s hand clapped over Marguerite’s mouth just in time to silence a scream. Someone was pounding on the door, breaking through the wood.

“This way,” a voice whispered.

Marguerite whirled around, and spotted the same boy who had come running into the dining room. He pointed to the wall, which he had somehow _opened_ … how had he done that? “This way,” he repeated, meeting her eyes. His were a peculiar shade of greenish-blue, and they widened as he gestured urgently for them to follow. “Quick!”

On the other side of the door, the mob and the pounding grew louder. They followed the boy toward the opened wall, anxious to reach its safety. Just as they crossed the threshold, Marguerite remembered something important. “My music box!” she cried!

“ _Go!_ ” the boy shoved her through, his face almost manic. Before she could protest, he had closed the wall, and they were plunged into darkness.

Adèle grabbed her hand, and they felt their way along the passage, hardly daring to breathe as the noise of the mob continued around them. After what seemed hours, they reached the end of the passage, and emerged into the warm kitchen.

“Oh!” one of the servants gasped, dipping into a curtsy. The others followed suit, but Adèle waved off the formality.

“There is no time for this,” she insisted. “We must go and warn the king!”

They all shifted uncomfortably, glancing at one another, before a tall, round-faced woman with blue-green eyes – the same eyes as that strange boy – stepped forward. “The king is dead, Your Grace. As are the queen and the princesses.”

Marguerite shook her head violently against the tears that burst through. “No, no, _no!_ ”

“ _Mon dieu,_ ” Adèle breathed.

“I am so very sorry,” the woman said through tears of her own.

Adèle shook her head. “It is not your doing. But Marguerite and I must find our way to safety. Can you help us?”

The woman nodded. “I can get you some clothes to change into. They won’t fuss over you if you’re dressed like servants. There’s a shipyard not far from here, I'm sure one of the boats will take you somewhere safe.”

“Thank you,” Adèle grasped her hand.

Marguerite cried too much to protest as Colette appeared and gently helped her change into the ratty old clothes. They were too big, and they scratched against her skin. All she could think of was her mother’s soft hands soothing her when she had fallen from the pony when she was five years old. Hands that would never soothe her again.

“Oh, pet,” Colette whispered, wiping away the young girl’s tears. “I know. I know, it’s not fair. But I know God has a plan in this, and He’ll show it to you, one way or another. Have faith. It’ll all turn out right.”

Once dressed, Adèle and Marguerite mounted one of the remaining horses, and quickly galloped off toward the shipyard. Some of the mob noticed their departure and chased after them, but none could match the horse’s speed. Marguerite buried her face against the rough wool of her grandmother’s borrowed coat, wishing this were all just a bad dream.

The shipyard was somehow even more chaotic. People scrambled onto boats as they pulled away from the shore. Some even jumped into the water, swimming to catch up and climb aboard. Marguerite was dimly aware of Adèle shoving a handful of coins into the palm of a frazzled-looking man, then she was being guided toward the dock. More loud bangs echoed nearby, and Adèle gripped her hand tightly.

“Hurry, Marguerite!” she cried, tugging her along.

Before long, they were at the docks, waiting as frantic travelers dashed single-file across the gangplank and onto the waiting ship. Marguerite followed her grandmother, still holding her hand…

Her foot slid over the edge, and the rest of her soon followed. Adèle screamed and reached out for her, then something hit her head, and the world went black…

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. I have been wanting to write this AU for AGES. Anastasia is my favorite non-Disney-but-still-feels-like-Disney movie. And I’ve tried a number of angles, in a number of fandoms, but none of them felt right. UNTIL NOW. And I’m so ridiculously excited!! YAASSS!! I hope I was able to convey some the panic through this chapter. It was hard to write, mainly because I felt if I got too wordy, it would downplay that panic, but… I mean, you gotta have some words! Anyway. I’ll shut up now. Please leave comments!!


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